Mind Over Matter
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: But he is still screaming Bella in his mind. Jacob-centric oneshot.


**A/N:** So this is kind of an anti-Bella thing. Sorry. I don't know what came over me.

--

He looks at his reflection in the mirror and wonders what was so bad about it.

Okay, so he wasn't pale white and sparkling, but who really wanted a snowglobe for a boyfriend anyway?

And, yeah, his eyes were dark instead of gold, and he was abnormally tall and his smile was too wide, but he never really thought she was that superficial.

He stares at his reflection every day and it always stays the same.

That was one thing they had in common.

--

His friends didn't ask him _why_ he never seemed to grow any older. He assumed it was because he looked twenty-five as it was, and was supposed to pass for twenty-three—but still, they never asked.

He wouldn't know how to answer, anyway.

_Well, see—there's this girl that I'm kinda sorta in love with and I'm pretty sure she isn't aging either._

Yeah, 'cause _that_ would go over so well.

--

He goes on dates so that his friends won't bother him.

He figures that it's not like _she_ is saving herself for him, anyway, and he is a man (in the loosest sense of the word) and he has needs. So he fucks them.

Not to say that he didn't treat them well. He did. Jacob Black was always the gentleman with his one-night stands, paying for dinner and whispering words like _beautiful_ and _lovely_, even when he didn't mean them.

And it gave him a chance to imagine it was _her_ he was kissing.

--

He writes her letters every day.

He stuffs them into his suitcases, under his bed, in his closet. He's running out of places to hide them.

_Bella, I love you, please tell me you're still alive, tell me you miss me, come back to me—_

He knows his friends have seen them but they never ask questions. He supposes he should be thankful, but it just makes him angry.

Maybe if someone said something, he would finally have an excuse to mail them.

--

When he celebrates his thirtieth birthday, he decides that it's time for him to leave.

People are starting to ask questions and he can't keep pulling the "I've got good genes" card.

So he moves to a different state, enrolls in college, throws out his letters and starts on new ones.

The days pass and his reflection hasn't changed one bit.

--

He's turning thirty for the fifth time when he realizes that he's never going to imprint.

It wasn't like he wanted to, but there was always a part of him that thought he might. He hated the thought of not being able to _choose_, of being _forced_ into love, but his heart just hurt so damn bad.

And now he realizes that nothing was going to fix it.

_Bella, I hate you, I really fucking hate you, I'm never going to die and it's all your fault—_

He watches the words rip apart as he shoves them into his new paper shredder.

--

He goes on another pointless date, but this time it's different.

No, his pulse still throbs with every thought of her, and when he kisses this girl at the end of the night, it is still _her_ lips he is tasting, but he also smiles and laughs during dinner, finds himself _wanting_ to hold her hand, _wanting_ to make her happy.

It's a new kind of feeling, this happiness, and he swallows uncomfortably when he schedules another date.

--

Her name is Sara. It's a simple name, and it fits her: she isn't extraordinary or stunning, but her eyes sparkle and she has dimples on her cheeks that make her seem younger than she really is.

He fucks her and he notices that it's not really _fucking_ this time—it's not from some primal animalistic part of him, but a deeper longing that hasn't been touched in a very long time.

He's sorry that he can't say he loves her.

But he is still screaming Bella in his mind.

--

She catches him looking in the mirror once, asks him why is he frowning?

He shakes his head and kisses her; she giggles when he picks her up and throws her onto his bed.

She doesn't notice the pad of paper sticking out from underneath his mattress.

She doesn't notice the cuts on his lip from his teeth when he dreams of _her_.

She doesn't notice because it doesn't _matter_.

--

When he turns thirty this time, he knows that he's not going to move. He's running out of towns to visit, excuses to give to his friends, running out of energy, out of goodbyes.

And his laugh is sad when Sara mentions how lucky she is that her boyfriend still looks twenty-five.

Because even when he is staring at her, listening to his heart begin to pound again, he's still wishing that she were someone else.

His reflection doesn't change, but his smile does.

He isn't pretending anymore.

--

He is metaphorically forty when he knows it's time.

Sara isn't the only one crying when he kisses her for the last time. He knows that he is stupid for doing this, because what was he waiting for anyway?

_She_ wasn't coming back to him.

She _wasn't _coming back to him.

But he is still her Jacob, no matter how hard he tries to stop.

_Bella, I belong to you, please just leave me alone, please just let me live—_

And he leaves.

--

The day he opens his door and she is there, pale and perfect, he doesn't kiss her like he thought he would.

Because she didn't wait for him, and she isn't the girl that he's in love with. He realizes that even though his image never changes, that doesn't mean his _feelings_ can't. He tells her he made a mistake.

_I'm sorry_, he says, and he is laughing.

Because now, he can live. He doesn't have to be stuck in his sixteen-year-old self, wiser than he's supposed to be and relentless in love.

He can stop writing letters. He can say goodbye. He can be in love with someone that is actually _alive_.

And he smiles at his reflection as it begins to change.

--

**END**


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